The Wind Beneath His Wings
by warrior of the nile
Summary: [alternate s1e3 ending] So this is it, Moriarty's end game. After playing tag all over London it is time for the final move. Sherlock, of course, can't resist arranging a meeting with the man. But when he does, it doesn't turn out as planned. Moriarty knows Sherlock's secret and will do anything to have it. The aftermath leaves Sherlock dealing with unforeseen consequences.


Sherlock barely makes it into the room before collapsing. Mycroft stares at his brother in horror. Contrary to popular belief, he does care, he is just terrible at showing it. So when his little brother comes in, teeth clenched with pain, unable to support himself, he is rather alarmed.

"It's done," Sherlock gasps.

Mycroft kneels next to him and gently takes off his coat. Blood drips from it and the shirt underneath is soaked. He closes his eyes in painful sympathy and regret. He fetches the first aid kit from the cabinet and kneels back down, applying pressure to the two wounds on his back.

Sherlock bites his hand to keep from screaming. Mycroft bites back a curse himself. Now is not the time to get emotional. Next he digs out two shots and applies one to each tear. It has the duo purpose of numbing the pain and stop the bleeding. He is then able to clean and stitch the wounds before bandaging them.

Sherlock motions for the box and Mycroft gives him the pills he wants. He swallows them dry. He tries to sit up, mostly unsuccessfully. Mycroft slips an arm under his and lets him lean up against him. Sherlock buries his head in his shoulder, something he hasn't done since he was seven.

"How did it happen?" Mycroft has already deduced a reasonable outline of events, but he knows Sherlock needs to talk through some things to be able to fully process them.

For once, there is no snark or heat to the answer. "He was stupid. I had a choice: either my wings or John's life. He didn't think I would be able to do anything after he removed them. Fool. He lost his own end game."

Mycroft runs his hand through his hair soothingly. "Foolish indeed. You did well."

Sherlock nods, pressing his face farther in his jacket.

He continues stroking his hair, running through a mental list of what needs to be taken care of now the Moriarty has been eliminated. It is extensive, but the most urgent is treatment for Sherlock.

The best place for him right now is the estate. It is secluded, familiar and should put his brother at ease enough to heal peacefully. The main problem lies in who his care taker will be. The servants are familiar enough with him, but Sherlock has never been the best patient on the best of days. Mycroft imagines now he will be a nightmare.

Plus it is not just someone who needs to watch over him, but someone who needs to tend to his injuries. He will never accept a stranger to do this, so even though he can swear a doctor to secrecy, it won't do much good.

The logical answer would be Dr Watson. He is loyal and has the skills needed. But his brother has never told Dr Watson of his wings. And the Doctor must be briefed on the nature of the wounds.

Which means he it is his job to inform the Doctor and make sure he understands that abandoning Sherlock because of this is not an option.

He nods to himself and continues to watch over his little brother.

* * *

Mycroft knocks on the door. He doesn't have to wait long before it opens.

"Sher- Mycroft," a frantic John Watson says. "Do you know where Sherlock is? No one else has seen him."

Mycroft nods. "Yes I do Dr Watson. May I come in?"

"Of course." He moves aside. "Is he alright?"

"In a manner of speaking." He had left Sherlock sleeping on the couch, knocked up on as many painkillers as he could handle.

Mycroft takes a seat and motions for John to do the same. "It is my understanding that you are very loyal to my brother. Is that correct?"

"Of course it is."

"And you have no plans on abandoning him, no matter how odd his quirks?"

"We are talking about legal quirks, right? I mean, not drugs, I know about those, but other... activities?"

"Rest assured that it has nothing to do with the law."

"Then yes. He's my best mate. Of course I don't plan on abandoning him. How is that even a question?"

Mycroft hands John the photo album he brought with him. The real one, not the cover one Mummy keeps to show others. "I need you to look at this before I go on."

John nods and takes it. Inside are pictures of Sherlock's childhood, starting as a baby and going on until he starts high school. The difference of the two albums is that Sherlock's wings are not hidden in this one.

He flips through them quietly. He closes it when he is done and looks at Mycroft, waiting for his to speak.

Mycroft looks back, waiting for a reaction.

He sighs. "Are you expecting me to run away screaming or yell or laugh or something idiotic like that? Because I was under the impression you were a genius. Unless I was wrong." He shrugs. "Wouldn't be the first time."

"Excuse me?"

"Obviously you want my thoughts on the subject. Well, I'm telling you. His wings are beautiful. They don't disturb me or freak me out. I think they are magnificent."

"You don't find them odd?"

John laughs. "Mycroft, this is _Sherlock_ we are talking about. _Everything_ about him is odd. I knew that from the first moment I met him. Him having wings just confirms my first thought: that he utterly unique and utterly fascinating."  
"Is that all?"

He ponders this for a moment. "I should definitely punch Anderson the next time he calls Sherlock 'Freak'."

Mycroft smiles. "I can see why my brother has become so attached to you."

"Yes, now can we please get on with it," he says impatiently.

"Sherlock went to confront Moriarty-"

"What?! The bloody idiot, of course he did. And he obviously managed to get injured if you have to tell me this. How bad is it?"

"He..." he pauses "Moriarty took his wings."

John closes his eyes.

"He managed to get to me in time, but he suffered from severe blood loss, among other things."

"I will kill him," John states with deadly calm.

"I'm afraid that wouldn't be possible. My brother has already done that. Moriarty was a fool and believed my brother harmless after he was wingless. That was his last mistake."

"And Sherlock?"

"Sleeping right now. I plan on arranging for him to stay at our house when he well enough to move. He requires medical attention, which is why I am explaining this to you. I will gather the equipment you need." He stands up. "I will arrange for you to follow. I suggest you pack." He walks to the door.

John's voice stops him. "Could he fly?"

Mycroft nods without turning back around. "Yes. He always told me it was the best thing in the world when we were younger." He leaves the flat with emotions he hasn't felt in years.

* * *

'House', right. John snorts. Only Mycroft Holmes could describe an estate as a mere house. "Well at least I know how he can afford those suits of his now," he mutters to himself as he grabs his bags and goes inside.

The whole place has a very Victorian feel to it. All elegant furniture and paintings. And didn't Mycroft say something about servants? There is no way Sherlock needs a flatmate to pay rent, not if this is anything to go by.

"Can I help you sir?" a maid asks him.

"Yes, I'm looking for Sherlock."

"The elder Mr Holmes has put the younger Mr Holmes to rest in his old room. This way please." They go up the stairs and down a few hallways before she gesture to a door. "In here sir."

"Thank you," John nods.

Inside John can see Sherlock laying on his stomach, still unconscious from the sedatives John ordered Sherlock be given if he was to be moved. He walks in and closes the door behind him. Crossing over to stand beside him, he looks down at his friend and sighs.

The whole thing with Moriarty left a bad taste in his mouth. He has been uneasy since the first pip. He knew no good could come of it, but _this._ This is beyond anything John could have imagined. So much destruction by just one man. Sickening.

Carefully he cuts away the bandages. Dried blood and skin comes away with it. He examines the wounds and feels himself start to shake with anger. Moriarty is lucky John doesn't know how to rise the dead or he would just to kill him again. Slowly and painfully.

He's going to need to know more about the actual anatomy, but he knows enough to see damage done to the muscle and ligaments in his back, not even taking into account the bone and how that will heal.

Sherlock is going to be in a lot of pain for a long time.

And isn't that just going to be so much fun? John had already nursed the git through a flu and he was ready to restrain and/or gag him. How much worse is it going to be when Sherlock legitimately has something to complain about?

He wonders if he can convince Greg for some cold cases. Once Sherlock is awake and aware he is going to need them.

He digs in his bag and pulls out the things he needs to restitch the wounds. Mycroft obviously knew what he was doing, but they needed to be secure if Sherlock is not going to accidentally pull them out.

"Was it worth it?" John asks the unconscious man as he works. "Mycroft found the bomb used to threaten us. Funny how you didn't mention that when you told him. You only mentioned me. Am I really that important to you? I know you care, but that much?"

He sighs. It doesn't take a genius to know Sherlock isn't a sociopath. It takes even less to figure out why he would tell people he is. But he didn't think he made that much of a different. He was just an ordinary, broken army doctor. How the hell did he get the attention of the Great Sherlock Holmes?

Is he really that lonely that pure acceptance and admiration is enough?

Scary thought, that.

And sad. Much too sad for John to think about without wanting to punch something. Or someone. More than one someone, to be perfectly honest. He probably shouldn't get quite that amount of enjoyment out of it, being a doctor, but he _was_ in the army.

It's amazing how well he can use that as an excuse and get away with it. Sherlock is the only one who will call him out on his bullshit and only if they're alone. He's just as amused by it as John is.

And there's that bad influence people keep talking about. Blame that on the military too. How exactly, he doesn't know, but give him some time. He'll figure it out.

John runs a hand through his hair. He needs sleep if this is what his thoughts are being reduced to.

He debates. On the one hand, he really does need sleep. It's been a long week and he hasn't slept peacefully since all of this began. When he's slept at all, that is. The last few days have been a hopeless cause, especially after Sherlock disappeared.

On the other, he doesn't want to leave. Sherlock will need more medicine when he wakes up and he doesn't know when that will be. He shouldn't be up walking around and he will if John isn't there to stop him. Plus he may need him during the night. And... and damn, he just doesn't want to leave the bastard.

People will talk.

"Fuck people," John mutters as he slides in beside his detective. They do little else.

* * *

Sherlock wakes with a stifled groan. His back feels like it is on fire. He breathes through his nose harshly to think through the pain. The last thing he remembers is getting to Mycroft in time. Then nothing.

He bites back a groan. Memory lose due to pain overload. How inconvenient.

A mummer alerts him to the fact that he is not alone and how did he not notice right away? Especially when the someone is curled protectively around him.

John.

Good, normal, loyal, repeatedly straight John is next to him. In bed. Sleeping.

The thought shouldn't require as much processing as it does. John is here. That means a few things. One is that he is safe. Obviously, but the thought is worth stating because no one harms John. Not if Sherlock can help it. And if someone does, they will regret it for the rest of their pitiful, painful lives.

Another is that he is aware that Sherlock is injured.

He knows about Moriarty, likely. He will probably be angry that he met him without backup.

He is aware of where Sherlock grew up, likely concluded his lack of financial need.

And, the last, he knows about his wings.

The last thought about sends him into a panic before he stops it. But _he knows._ John Watson knows about his wings. The one thing he wanted to keep hidden and John knows. Knows what a freak he is, always was. Knows how he will never fully fit in.

Knows and is still here. Why?

Likely conclusions:

already knew- impossible, careful to leave no evidence

fascination- imaginable- curiosity, revolted but mesmerized, cruelly interested

guilt- conceivable, sustained protecting- gratitude added- possible

sympathy- conceivable, kind personality trait

pity- possible- caring, Doctor, doesn't want to abandon injured, will leave once better- possible, likely

doesn't care- improbable

doesn't mind- improbable

These flash across Sherlock's eyelids rapidly as he discards, adds and expands on each. Pity seems the most likely, but here Sherlock runs into a conflict of data. Experience tells him one thing (pity/guilt) and his file on John Watson tells him another (doesn't mind).

Aggravating.

John stirs beside him. "Sh'lock?" he asks sleepily, "Hold on." He slides out of bed and retrieves his bag. Reaching in, he pulls out a bottle and, opening it, takes out two pills. "Here, you can have more after you eat something."

Sherlock swallows them dry.

"How are you feeling? Besides terrible because I imagine that's the first answer."

"Like I've been hit by a truck," he answers, voice raspy.

John chuckles. "Sad part is that you probably know from experience. Okay, I need to change your bandages." He proceeds to do just that.

"Aren't you going to ask?"

"Why you went after Moriarty by yourself? No, I get that part. You about killed yourself the first night of our acquaintance. I got that you're an idiot pretty quickly. Or why you're wounded? Moriarty is a fucking sadistic bastard. Get that too."

"No. My wings."

"Hmmm, yes, Mycroft showed my the photo album. I hope you don't mind." He continues to work steadily. "You were such a cute kid growing up, I bet you terrorized everyone."

Sherlock breathes harshly. "You are missing the point."

"Christ, what is it with you Holmes' and expecting me to run screaming or some nonsense like that. Your brother, I can see, but you? I thought you knew me better by now."

"Conflict in data," Sherlock mutters petulantly into his pillow.

"Ah, so some dumb bastards took it badly before and clogged up your information. That I can believe. I normally don't encourage this, but you are right when you call most people idiots. Not that you should _tell_ them this, but there you go. I agree."

Oh the marvel that is Captain John H. Watson, M.D.

Sherlock updates his file, unaware of the small smile on his face.

"Right, breakfast. Let's start with soup and see how your stomach likes you from there."

He pulls a face.

"Oh no. You _are_ eating. The medicine is going to tear your stomach apart if you don't. And I am _not_ dealing with internal bleeding along with your torn up back. So, any particular kind you want?"

"The cook will probably already have some made."

"Alright, I'll be back. Don't. Move." John gets up and leaves the room. "Christ, a _cook_," he mutters, still within hearing distance.

John's warning is likely a mere formality because even the thought of moving makes him feel nauseous. John better not be expecting Sherlock to eat a lot because that clearly isn't happening.

John comes back, carrying a tray with a bowl of soup and a couple of sandwiches. Obviously he isn't planning on leaving Sherlock long enough to eat. "Okay, time to sit up," he informs, rather pointlessly.

Sherlock moves to push himself up and has to bite down on his tongue. Hard. A small sound still escapes him. Clearly a number of things aren't happening, including moving freely for a while.

John rushes to his side. "Shit, you bugger. Here let me help before you hurt yourself." With his help he is able to sit up.

"Alright, eat what you can. If you feel nauseous stop. After this you can have more painkillers." He manages half a bowl.

"Good. Do you think you can keep that down?"

He gives a cautious nod.

"Okay. Here are the pills." He swallows them. John helps him lay back down.

"I'll be right here if you need anything," John says, as if it wasn't already obvious that neither hell nor high water were going to move the doctor from his side.

A small whimper of pain escapes him.

"Shh," John says soothingly, running a hand through his hair, "sleep."

Sherlock does, drifting off to the feel of John's fingers in his curls.

* * *

The next month can only be described as one of the levels of Hell. The first two weeks Sherlock is in too much pain to do anything besides eat in between meals. After that he starts to get restless, but still can't move much.

John does everything he can do to keep the detective occupied- word puzzles, riddles, books, telly from his laptop, his laptop in general. He's not always successful, Sherlock will lash out and yell in frustration and boredom. They get into more rows than they ever have in the months they have lived together.

And then there are the nightmares. Sherlock never tells him what they are about, but John has a good idea. From the broken 'no' , 'leave him alone', 'no John', 'take them leave him alone' whimpers, it's fairly obvious. He doesn't talk about them, but they leave him terrified when he wakes. John curls around Sherlock while he clings to the doctor during these times. The first time Sherlock reached for him John was surprised, but he didn't hesitate.

Mycroft will visit occasionally. Surprisingly there isn't the usual snarling and snark when he does. In fact, there is almost a visible fondness on both sides. But it still leaves Sherlock in a fidgety mood and more likely to pick a fight with John afterward.

Through it all John never leaves, never even thinks about it. He knows his place and it is by his mad man's side. No matter what.

* * *

Time goes on. Sherlock slowly heals enough to be able to move around without much pain. He had taken to wander the halls as soon as he is capable. It gives him time to process to all that has happened as well as rebuild his strength.

John had rarely left his side since he had woken the first time. He always left him with great reluctance and only when necessary.

It had taken some adjusting to accept that he was not going to leave Sherlock no matter how cruel or bored he became. Over the years he has grown accustomed to solitude. Never having any true privacy grated on his nerves in the beginning.

But there is also something very restful about John too. He makes no demands other than the boring essentials such as eating or sleeping. They get into rows when Sherlock becomes restless and his mind feels like it is tearing itself apart, but he still doesn't storm off like he use to. He soothes Sherlock when Moriarty comes back in his dreams and doesn't complain when Sherlock clings to him. He even continues to sleep in the same bed.

All of this has Sherlock recategorizing his file on one John Watson. Although truthfully he had been doing that since the first day he met the doctor. The first impression was a wounded army doctor down on his luck- ordinary and boring. But then he had asked Sherlock to explain his deduction him, called him amazing, killed a man for him and then giggled about it, called him an idiot, _stayed._

He found that while John looked ordinary with his jumpers and love of tea, he also had a center of steel. He was caring and thoughtful, but would not hesitate to shot or kill anyone who threatened Sherlock. He complained about the experiments and body parts and violin, but never thought of moving out.

He proclaimed to all that they were not a couple, that he wasn't gay and tried to date that dull women from work- Samantha? Sandra? Sarina?- but now, never gave it a thought to sleep in Sherlock's bed.

The last bothers Sherlock more than he cares to admit. When he first told John that he was married to his Work, it was true. It is much simpler than trying to find someone at least semi interesting that he wants to be around for more than five minutes. Besides, everyone left eventually. The only two people he could say he was close to were Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. And even those two found him too much at times.

But John...

John is an unstudied phenomenon. Not only does he have to ability to continue to surprise him, he also has a high tolerance for him as well. Sherlock keeps waiting for the day that he crosses the line and makes John leave, but it has yet to happen. He appears to genuinely like Sherlock. He doesn't understand.

He is no fool. He knows exactly what his feelings are for John. But they are irrelevant since they will come to nothing. Eventually, no matter how much John likes him, he is going to find a woman to marry and start a family with. He will keep in contact with the detective, but as time progresses it will be less and less until he is too busy with his new life to see him more than once a month, possible a fortnight if he is lucky.

That is if he didn't catch sight of Sherlock's wings and turn away with disgust from the freak. That event had the potential to destroy their friendship altogether. After all, who would want to stay with a malformed person such as himself?

Sherlock scoffs. Luck and emotions. Two things he despised before and now is reduced to relying on. Disgusting. But those were his conclusions.

Now though, John is confusing his data.

He shows no desire to go, even though at this point Sherlock would be fine on his own without a doctor's care. He hasn't even shown a desire to move to another room. He still doesn't like to leave Sherlock out of his sight for too long. And he doesn't care about his wings.

A true anomaly indeed.

As if his thoughts have summoned him, John comes to stand beside him. He doesn't say anything as he stare out at the garden. Eventually he asks, "Will you tell me what happened?"

Sherlock doesn't need to ask what he means. He doesn't reply right away, but then, slowly, he begins to talk.

"I may be on the side of angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them."

"Come now Sherly, no lying to Daddy. We both know that's not quite true."

"I can assure you it is."

"Your wings say differently."

Sherlock tries his best not to react, but a twitch gives him away.

Moriarty smiles at his surprise. "Oh yes, I know all about your wings. You were born a little freak weren't you? No one knew what to do with you. The outcast of the perfect British family. Only Big Brother bothered with you. And what a good job he did! Teaching you to expand your mind, to ignore all those nasty little brats you went to school with. But you couldn't quite get rid of your heart could you? It's still there, no matter how deep you bury it. And if you don't give me what I want, I will _burn_ it out of you."

"And what would that be?"

"I'm sure you can deduce it."

"Maybe I want to hear you say it. There are so many things you want after all, aren't there?" Sarcasm colors the statement.

"Your wings. Either you give me your wings or I active the fifth pip. And wouldn't that be _such_ a shame. After all, 221 is practically a historic building."

"It is," Sherlock confirms, stupidly, because why would it matter? It's not the building he is worried about. "I have no guarantee that will not set it off even if I agree to comply with you."

"My word as a consulting criminal," he bows.

"That's not much of a reassurance."

"Not to normal people, regular people, _boring_ people, but we're different aren't we? We are above all of them. We know how to think, to observe. My word, that what I say is true. I acquire your wings and I will leave your little social circle alone."

"For good?"

"For good."

Sherlock takes a deep breath before nodding. When given the choice between John's safety, _John's life_, and Sherlock's, there is no choice at all.

"Excellent!" Moriarty grins. "Let's get started now shall we. Show me those beautiful wings of yours."

Sherlock sheds his coat and shirt quickly. Next he removes the brace that keeps his wings contained. They unfurl from the bindings, surrounding him like the angel he definitely isn't.

"Magnificent," Moriarty breaths as he steps closer. He gives a yank on one, before running a hand down it. He grins. "And soon they will be mine! Come now." He leads the other man to the next room where there is a table. "Down you go."

Sherlock lays down on the table and grabs the edges. Moriarty twirls the knife in front of his face. "This is going to be such fun!" There are no ropes to hold him down and Sherlock can only assume Moriarty wants to watch him restrain himself, knowing what the consequence will be if he refuses. He grabs a wings and begins to cut.

Sherlock doesn't feel it right away. He is able to send his mind away from his body. It's just transport after all. But the deeper the cut goes, the harder it is to control. He is human, no matter how much he denies it. The breaking point is when Moriarty reaches the bone. At first he is able to grit his teeth, but that doesn't last long. He lets out a yelp when the bone is broken.

Moriarty laughs.

After that it is agony. He cannot break away from his body, no matter how much he tries. His thoughts flow to the reason he is doing this in an attempt to distract himself. To John- his wonderful, loyal, beautiful, shinning blogger. He barricades himself in John's room, letting memories wash over him. They bring some comfort, but not enough. Not nearly enough.

"Oh how cute. Some people get so attached to their pets," Moriarty sneers.

Obviously at some point he started voicing his thoughts out loud. Inconvenient.

Finally, finally it ends. Sherlock can feel the blood pouring down his back. He is clinging to consciousness by will power alone.

"Well Sherly, what do you think?" Moriarty holds the wings in front of him, like some prize he had won and not something he just cut off his back. "I can see why you're so fond of them. A worthy trophy for the hunter." He winks. "It's been fun darling, but I must be going now." He turns and walks away.

Sherlock strikes then. He gathers the rest of his strength and tackles the madman. He doesn't even have a chance to look surprised before Sherlock breaks his neck. He drops the body and rolls off of him.

He needs to get help. Right now he is thankful that he was an active child and a genius. One allowed him to produce his own wing care kit and the other gave him motivation to make it in the first place. His brother has what he needs, but he doubts the probability of him making it. But John isn't the only stubborn one in the friendship and he drags himself up and puts his cloths on, both the hide his wounds and in an attempt to slow the blood flow.

He sets off for the Diogenes Club as fast as he can.

John is silent when he finishes. But only for a moment before he begins to swear viciously. Sherlock adds several new ones to his information about the doctor. It takes minutes for him to finally calm down enough to stop. He takes a deep breath that comes out an agitated sigh.

"That bastard is lucky he is already dead. He died far too quickly for what he deserved," he says harshly. John pauses. Then, "Was it worth it?"

"Yes," he answers without hesitation.

John gives another sigh. "I feel I should apologize. I know, I know," he continues when Sherlock opens his mouth, "irrational and unnecessary. It still doesn't change the fact that I was used against you like that. I am still the reason you lost your wings. I couldn't even do anything about it. At least if the bastard had shoved me in a vest I would have been there. I might have been able to _do_ something other than be a fucking sitting duck."

Sherlock doesn't know say what to this. It is ridiculous and sentimental. If Moriarty didn't use John a leverage, he would have used someone else. The fact that Mrs Hudson wasn't home that night was mere coincidence. The criminal mastermind was determined to have his way, through one method or another. John just happen to be the most convenient at the time. But he obviously needed reassurance none the less. "Don't be an idiot John, Moriarty would have used anyone he could to win the Game. He just happen to pick you."  
John snorts. "Like that makes he feel better. That still leaves me as the most visible pawn to get to you."

Sherlock is silent for a moment before voicing the most obvious solution to the problem. "You could leave."

"What?!"

"Leave John, it's not that hard of a concept. You said yourself that you are too visible as long as you are with me. The obvious solution would be to move out. No one would blame you. A mad man threatened to blow you up because of your flatmate. That would be too much for anyone. You probably wouldn't even need that excuse for people to understand. Anyone who has met me knows how intolerable I am. That you stuck around this long is admirable, but now it is unnecessary. I can function without a doctor's care and you can be relieved of that obligation now. Any debt you feel you owe me because of this incident has been repaid. You can go. I promise not to bother you afterward. You will be safe."

John stares at him like he has grown another head. "Leave- debt- relieved- Jesus Sherlock," he sputters, "what the hell is going through that crazy head of yours? Of course I'm not going to leave. And I'm taking care you _because_ I care, not for some imagined debt. How do you not get that?"

Sherlock does not want to answer him, but an answer comes unbidden anyways. "Everyone leaves eventually."

John looks like his heart is breaking at this simply, but correct, truth. "Oh Sherlock." He hugs him gently, without hesitation, as if he is something precious and not a malformed, dysfunctional freak. "I won't. I will never leave you."

He feels his eyes water and he tries to get a hold of himself because he _is not_ going to cry over something so stupid, especially not in front of John. "It is inevitable," he says, his voice shaking slightly.

"No," John says firmly, "I will not. Do you understand why?"  
Sherlock shakes his head, confused.

John steps back so he can look the detective in the face. He gently strokes his cheek with a calloused hand. "Because I care for you more than anyone else. Somehow, in less than six months, you worked your way into my life so thoroughly I can't imagine one without you now. I can't think of anything that would make me leave at this point, not even you telling me to. I love you."

Sherlock examines John. Every centimeter of him screams sincerity and truth. He rest his forehead against the doctor's. "John," is all he says, but it's all he needs to.

John grins happily. "My mad hatter."

* * *

They stayed on the estate for another month before they began to talk about going back to Baker Street. Sherlock had healed for the most part and he wanted to go back to London and get back into the Game.

The day before they planned to leave Sherlock's back tingled the entire time. He didn't mention it to John, didn't want to worry him. He did that enough as it was. It wasn't painful, just annoying, that pin and needles feeling a limb gets when blood begins to circulate again after being cut off.

That night he falls asleep easily, spooning John. He wakes in the middle of the night to a searing pain coming from his back. Moving his shoulders just makes it worse so he holds as still as he can. But the pain doesn't decrease. If anything, it grows worse by the minute. He lets out a soft whimper.

He then bites the side of his cheek. John remains asleep, oblivious, and Sherlock is glad. He has spent too many nights awake because of Sherlock as it is. He deserves a peacefully night.

But as the pain increases he finds it harder to keep silent. He is reduced to biting his pillow to reduce the volume of his whines. It feels like something is forcing itself out of his back. Right where his wings use to be...

Sherlock lets out a curse as his skin breaks. He tightens his grip on John, causing him to stir. He curses himself. This is exactly what he wanted to avoid, especially now that he knows what is happening.

"Lock?" John asks sleepily.

Sherlock can't answer, being too busy holding back his groans of pain.

John frees himself from his iron hold and sits up. "Hey. Is it your back again?" He gently turns the detective so he can see and swears when he sees the blood. "What-?"

"Wings," Sherlock grits out, "regrowing."

"Christ," is his only reply.

A bone extends through and Sherlock arches his backing, crying out. All he can think about now is the pain. It is just as bad as having them removed.

John pulls Sherlock on top of him and rubs his back, ignoring the blood that quickly covers his hands and stains the sheets as it runs off Sherlock's back. "Hey, it's okay, I'm here, I have you, it'll be okay," he whispers as the other man begins to sob in pain and frustration at this lack of control. He strokes each feather he can reach gently as they come out, a fascinated and sympathetic look on his face.

Eventually it ends and Sherlock pants slightly in exhaustion. "John," he mummers.

"Shhh, sleep now," he whispers.

Sherlock plans to protest, but his body agrees with John and he falls asleep before he can reply.

* * *

John wakes to the late afternoon sun with Sherlock still sprawled on top of him. His wings are spread out on either side of him. He can't help but reach out and touch them. They are soft to the touch, even with the blood covering them. It does nothing to deter his urge to stroke them, so he give in. He runs his fingers through them as Sherlock sleeps on, making them as presentable as he can. A shower is the only thing that will get them completely clean, but for now he is content to simply bring some order to them.

When Sherlock wakes half an hour later John can practically see the moment his thoughts start and then kick into overdrive.

"Morning," he says cheerfully.

Sherlock merely blinks at him.

"Come on then," he starts to move, "shower time."

Sherlock follows him without speaking. Great. Wonderful. Just bloody dandy. What in the world is going through that brain of his?

When they enter the loo he begins to strip automatically and Sherlock copies. "Guessing this is why the showers are so large?" he asks, gesturing to his wings. That seems to bring Sherlock out of whatever he was thinking.

"John," he says.

And Christ, John knows exactly what he is thinking. The look on his face... dear god. "Hey," John puts a hand on Sherlock's cheek, "hey, it's okay Sherlock. Everything thing is fine. I told you, I don't care that you have wings."

"It is one thing to know that I use to have them and quite another now that I possess them once again," he replies lowly.

John pauses, looking for the right thing to say. Sherlock doesn't show vulnerability hardly at all, and when he does one wrong word could send the walls right back up with no chance of reentry. "You're it is." Sherlock flinches. "Because photos do not do them justice. They are so... incredible, beautiful, amazing. I'm afraid you are going to have to put up with my urge to stroke them constantly for a while."

"John-"

"They are a part of you and I love them, just like I love everything else about you," he chuckles, "Even that parts that drive me mad sometimes."

"John," Sherlock says again, in his wondering tone, like he can't believe John is real at the moment.

"I told you Sherlock, you're stuck with me now. I meant it you nutter." He grins. "Now come on, let's get that dried blood off those magnificent wings of yours. I can't wait to touch them some more."

Sherlock obeys with a fond and slightly exasperated eye roll.

* * *

Sherlock is laying out in the sun, letting his wings dry. John is sitting on one of his sides, lightly running his hands through one. He was not exaggerating his desire to play with them.

It feels nice. Up until this point Mycroft is the only other person to ever touch them and he never did with this much enthusiasm. John might as well be purring in contentment. There is a certain amount of irony in that, but he doesn't say anything. He truly doesn't mind and he doesn't want John to feel ashamed of it.

"Mycroft mentioned that you can fly," he says eventually.

"Yes," he confirms.

"Would you show me?"

Sherlock props himself up on his elbows and examines John. He never could have imagined John would take to his wings as much as he had. The most Sherlock had ever hoped for was polite tolerance, not this zealous response. It creates a warm sensation throughout his body when he thinks of it. Sentiment, but he finds he doesn't mind.

He stands and flexes before launching himself into the air. It takes a few minutes to adjust, seeing as he hasn't flown in some time, but it doesn't take long. Muscle memory is a fabulous thing. He grins as he soars. Flying is the best thing in the world. It even surpasses the Work. Sherlock knows that would shock anyone, but the freedom of it is intoxicating. His thoughts don't weigh him down and boredom doesn't eat away at this brain when he is in the air. Glorious.

Down below him John tracks his ever move with wide, fascinated eyes.

Sherlock lands next to him. "Well?"

"Magnificent," he breathes "absolutely brilliant."

Sherlock steps closer to his, bringing them nose to nose. He wraps his arms around John's waist. "Hold on," he commands, grinning mischievously.

He obeys. "What-?"

Sherlock once again launches himself into the air, this time with John.

John lets out a yelp that soon becomes a laugh of delight and wonder. Sherlock grins. With the sun on his back, the wind beneath his wings and John in his arms, he feels like something different.

No longer a freak, but a beloved.


End file.
